


Love and Truffles

by phantombride



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bad Cooking, Domestic, Fluff and Humor, Other, Post-Apocalypse, good cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 22:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantombride/pseuds/phantombride
Summary: After 6,000 years of pining, Aziraphale has finally told Crowley that he loves him. Unfortunately, he didn't say it back. Distraught, both of them call Anathema for advice.





	Love and Truffles

Anathema is just getting to bed when she gets the call. She ignores the first couple of rings, rolling over to hide from the vibrations of her cell phone. Finally, mercifully, the phone stops ringing. She pulls her comforter tighter around her and closes her eyes. Then, her phone begins to ring again. She groans, and snatches her phone from the other side of the bed. Blinking in the darkness, her caller ID shows A.Z. Fell. 

She contemplates not answering for a moment. Then, begrudgingly, she picks up the phone.

“Aziraphale?” Her voice is sleepy and tinged with the slightest bit of irritation.

“Anathema! How wonderful!” Aziraphale says. “Oh, did I wake you?”

“Aziraphale, it’s one in the morning. Of course you woke me.”

“Yes. Sleeping. It’s a thing that you do. I forgot. How selfish of me.” Aziraphale pauses for a moment. “But I’ve got something that I gravely need assistance with. The situation is rather dire.”

Anathema shoots up in bed. “Well, what is it? The return of Satan? Another apocalypse?”

“I’m afraid it’s even worse.” Aziraphale takes another long pause, where he pushes the glasses that he doesn’t need further up his nose. He lets his statement linger longer than is truly necessary.

“_Aziraphale_. What is it?”

“It’s just. Well. I’ve...” He stumbles, clearing his throat. “I’ve told Crowley that I love him.”

“_That’s it?_” Anathema says, already moving to hang up. Aziraphale’s voice reaches her even as she pulls the phone away from her ear.

“_That’s it?_ That’s IT? My dear girl, it’s been 6,000 years. I can’t believe you don’t understand how momentous this occasion is -”

Anathema brings the phone up to her ear again. “What, let me guess, you said it, he said it back, then you let a demon possess you -”

Aziraphale gasps, properly scandalized by her assumption. “What - I’ve never - well, only once, I can’t believe you’d even _insinuate_, that’s - that’s ridiculous -”

She decides to save him from his embarrassment. “Okay, fine. What happened, then? You confessed your love to each other, then held hands under the moonlight listening to super old and uncool jazz music?”

“Well, you see, that’s the problem.” Aziraphale swallows. “He didn’t, um. He didn’t say it back.”

“Oh. _Oh,_” Anathema says, and falls silent.

“It’s bad, isn’t it? Oh, it’s very bad,” Aziraphale says, and his voice waivers at the end, sounding sad. “He’s supposed to say it back! That’s how these things work. You don’t think there’s anyway he doesn’t know that, right? Of course he knows that, he’s been hanging about humans since the dawn of creation. He just went really quiet, and looked kind of - well, ill. And then he excused himself. What could that possibly mean? Why did he react that way? Anathema. What do I. Just. What do I _do_?” He’s so earnest that she almost forgives him for waking her up in the middle of the night.

“Well, for one, try to calm down,” Anathema says, beginning to chip away at her nail polish. “It’s obvious he loves you. Even when he hit me with his car, I could tell.”

“Calming down is absolutely out of the question. And it isn’t obvious. Even if it were obvious, he should still say it. That’s what you’re _supposed_ to do.” Aziraphale is using the tone of voice that he uses when he’s been denied something he thinks he deserves, like the fresh batch of bread at a restaurant. “When did you tell Newton that you loved him?”

Anathema grimaces. “I didn’t. We broke up.”

“My apologies,” Aziraphale says, taken aback. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s no big deal,” Anathema says, shrugging, though he can’t see it. “Just didn’t work out. We only got together because Agnes told us to, anyway.”

“It did seem like you got along quite well,” Aziraphale says softly. 

“We did. For a while. But then after I burned the book-” Aziraphale interrupts her with a condescending tut - “I realized that I thought being with him was the way to stop being a professional descendant. Like I was trying too hard to rebel. Instead of just being me, and thinking about what I wanted.”

“That’s very reasonable of you, Anathema, and I’m proud.”

“Er. Thanks. But,” she continues, flicking a piece of nail polish away, “the thing with Crowley. I can read auras. His is brighter than the Northern Lights when he’s around you. You have to know that. I mean, you can literally feel love.”

“Yes, but -”

“He let you put a bike rack on his car -”

“I know, but - wait, you noticed?”

“I’m not oblivious, Aziraphale.” Anathema says, stretching out. “But you might be. Why don’t you talk to him about it?”

“I couldn’t possibly. How am I ever supposed to show my face in front of him again? I’m so ashamed.”

“You know,” Anathema says with a wicked grin, “I could do a spell. Get him to say it back. Just the tiniest bit of witchcraft.”

“What? Absolutely - no, no way. How could you even suggest? Anathema, I’m appalled.” Aziraphale is silent for a few moments. Then, quietly, he says, “Would it...would it work?”

Anathema laughs. “No. I never knew you were such a fan of witches, Aziraphale.”

He sighs. “Only one.”

“Hold on, Aziraphale, I’ve got another call,” Anathema says, moving her phone away from her ear. Ah. It’s exactly who she expected. She answers. 

“Crowley?”

“Yeah,” the demon replies. “You’re awake?”

“You called me even though you thought I would be asleep?”

Crowley clears his throat. “Listen, I sort of...cocked up.”

“Yeah, I know,” Anathema says. “I’ve got Aziraphale on the other line.”

“What? You need to get rid of him. _ Now_.”

Shaking her head, she taps a few buttons and switches over the calls. “God, he’s so annoying.”

“Excuse me?” Crowley answers, still on the line.

“Oh, oops,” Anathema says, and switches over the calls once more, looking at her phone this time to make absolutely sure. “God, he’s so annoying.”

“God is actually a woman, dear, but I don’t see what The Almighty has to do with this situation in the slightest,” Aziraphale says.

“I was talking about Crowley. He’s on the other line. Listen, I’m going to let you go. I’m sure the situation will work itself out with time.”

“But -“

“Goodnight, Aziraphale.” She hangs up, returning to Crowley.

As soon as the call clicks over, she hears Crowley’s voice. “What’s he saying?”

“Oh, he’s heartbroken. Absolutely distraught.”

Crowley lets loose a long string of expletives. “I thought it was obvious!”

“It is. Disgustingly obvious, if I’m being honest.”

“Exactly! So why’s he all, ehm, _upset_?”

“It’s just something important for him to hear, I think. Why don’t you just call him and tell him now?”

“I can’t just…not after he. It won’t work.” 

“Hmm. You might be right. Well, you know him better than anyone. Why don’t you do something nice for him?”

“Because I’m not _nice_, witch,” Crowley says, spitting the word. 

Anathema snorts. “Oh, right. You’re devious and evil and whatever. But...it would work, you know. He likes food. Why don’t you just cook him something?”

“Cook? I’m a demon. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Well you better start learning. Goodnight, Crowley. Oh, and one more thing.”

“What is it?” 

“I love you, Crowley,” Anathema laughs, hanging up before he can retort. 

Somewhere in the distance, Crowley drops his phone. 

\----------

A few days later, Crowley stares at his phone, innocently perched on his desk. Then, he stares at it for a few minutes more. He even removes his sunglasses, so that it gets the full effect of an Anthony J Crowley glare. The two of them sit like this for a while, locked in an unspoken battle. Finally, Crowley picks it up. He dials Aziraphale’s number from memory. He lets it ring exactly once before hanging up. 

_Fuck. Come on, Crowley._

He picks the phone up again, and redials. It rings, once, twice, then-

“Hello, how may I help you?”

A beat of silence. Crowley hangs up again, frustrated. He slams the phone back onto his desk with a touch too much force, and has to miracle it into working again.

_What if he doesn’t wanna go?_

He snarls, snatches the phone off his desk, and redials. _You’ve lived in hell. You’ve faced down Beezelbub. This is nothing._ Aziraphale answers on the first ring.

“I don’t know who you are or how you got this number, but I swear, if you don’t stop ringing me I’ll - I’ll be _very cross_.“

Crowley swallows hard to stifle the laughter he feels on its breaking point. “Relax, angel. It’s me.”

“Oh, thank goodness. Someone’s been, ah, I believe it’s - _crank_ calling me. That’s it. You know, calling and hanging up. It was really starting to ruffle my feathers.”

Crowley smiles against the mouthpiece. “How odd. Listen, I-”

“Was there something you wanted?” Aziraphale speaks the same time as he does. There’s a beat of awkward silence. Crowley clears his throat.

“You’re coming over tonight.” He’s so bad at this, truly. 6,000 years on Earth, and he couldn’t be any worse.

“I’m - what? Crowley, I’m supposed to -”

“Just be here. 7 o’ clock.” He hangs up before he can make more of a fool of himself. And before Aziraphale can give him the no that he’s expecting. He takes a heavy pull from the open bottle of scotch on his desk, and stands, yanking the phone out of the wall as he goes. 

Everything in Crowley’s kitchen is modern. Updated, sleek, and completely unused. He never was one for eating. Not like Aziraphale, who would savor every meal. Two bites into a peking duck would bring that little hum of pleasure from the back of his throat. A good crepe could, and had in the past, make his entire year. No. Crowley didn’t like eating.

He liked food, sometimes, but not enough to ever learn how to make anything. He isn’t even sure if everything in here is functional. He’d never thought to check.

Still, he’s got grocery bags piled on his countertops. Groceries just waiting to be made into a fancy, frivolous meal. Something rich, and delicious, and expensive. Something that would pull that little hum out of Aziraphale.

After thousands of years being pulled along to the most advanced human restaurants, he might’ve over shot the mark. How was he supposed to compete with champagne at The Ritz? How was he supposed to compare to xiao long bao in Shanghai? 

The answer, apparently, lied in a little trip to Tuscany. Two quick, little temptations and a stolen pig later, he had these. Alone in his fridge save a bottle of hot sauce, a glass container full of mushrooms greets him. Stupid, expensive, ridiculous mushrooms.

Oh, Aziraphale is going to lose his mind, he thinks, returning to the room with his phone. He plugs it back in and calls Aziraphale again.

“Crowley-“

“Bring wine.” Aziraphale has time to get in one very haughty snort before Crowley hangs up.

——

Aziraphale arrives at 6:45pm. He hesitates briefly before knocking. He shifts his weight from toe to toe as he waits for Crowley to answer. He has just enough time to start second guessing his decision. He’s brought wine, but what if it isn’t what Crowley wanted? He stares down at the dusty bottle in his hands. He’s about to turn tail and run back to his book store when Crowley opens the door. He offers a nervous smile, and hands the vintage off as he steps inside.

Crowley accepts the bottle with a nod. “I said seven.” The corners of his mouth are just barely quirked in a smile.

Aziraphale shoots him a furious look. “I didn’t have to come at all.” He didn’t, but he didn’t know how to...not be around Crowley. Every moment on Earth was spent orbiting him, his existence twirled up and working in tandem with Aziraphale’s. Even the few days apart, in the fallout from their awkward encounter, had seemed much too long. 

“Quite right,” Crowley says, as Aziraphale steps further into his home. He’s watching Aziraphale intently, waiting for something. “But you did anyway. Follow me.”

Aziraphale tilts his head, an unasked question hanging in the air. He follows Crowley, and realizes he’s being lead into the kitchen. He knows the hallway. “You’ve already shown me your microwave, Crowley, and I am simply _not_ interested. What food must taste like after being subjected to that thing, I shudder to think.”

Instead of answering, Crowley simply stops moving. He turns to Aziraphale with a curt nod, and gestures him forward. “Keep going, angel.” Aziraphale passes Crowley, taking his first step into the kitchen.

“Oh! Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, sighing wistfully. He can smell the food, sizzling away in the pans. Garlic. Onions. Boiling water. Something...earthly. Delicate. A rush of emotion brings the smile bursting on his face. Crowley watches, proud of himself, as he begins to pour wine for the both of them. 

“Never cooked anything before, you know,” Crowley says, handing him a glass. “Lit my kitchen on fire first time that I tried.”

“Well, it seems like you’ve managed to salvage it,” Aziraphale says, moving slowly forward. He passes a cutting board with freshly chopped onions and grins. “You could’ve miracle’d these, you know. They would’ve been more uniform.” 

“Yes, but it felt like cheating,” Crowley murmurs, leaning against his refrigerator, arms crossed. 

“And what’s this?” Aziraphale asks, picking up the glass container. When he realizes what’s inside, he _gasps_. “Is this - Crowley - is this -”

Crowley breaks into a grin. “White truffles. Fresh from Tuscany.”

“But - _how_?” Aziraphale is in awe, smiling in the way that makes his eyes crinkle. “I haven’t had one of these in, oh - it’s been _hundreds_ of years.”

“Fancy that,” Crowley says, stepping close to Aziraphale for the first time.

Aziraphale turns his gaze from the truffles for the first time. “But there are only two.” His face falls, just a little, before Crowley intervenes. He takes Aziraphale gently by the elbow and leads him over to the stove. Upon it, he’s been cooking for a couple hours. Satueeing onions and garlic with an ungodly amount of butter, boiling angel hair pasta, tasting, adjusting, throwing out the bad batches - of which, there were quite a few. Finally, he thinks he’s got it right, and had only just tossed the sliced truffles into the butter when Aziraphale arrived. He stands, waiting for Aziraphale to notice.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, strained, almost. Not at all the reaction he had been expecting. “Did you _cook_ the truffles?”

“Well, yeah, that’s what you do with -” He’s interrupted by Aziraphale staggering backwards, catching himself on the kitchen counter. Aziraphale looks helplessly from Crowley to the stove to the counter and back, and then reaches a shaking hand up to knock his wine glass from atop the counter. It falls to the floor and shatters, exploding into a sea of red wine and glass shards. 

“Why on Earth would you do that?” Crowley hisses, looking down at his wine-soaked shoes. Aziraphale has fallen from his place against the counter to the floor, the red wine splattered brightly across his pastel attire. 

“I panicked,” Aziraphale says. He slides further onto the floor, curling onto his side. Crowley, exasperated, kneels before him.

“What? Are you supposed to - to _bake_ them, or something?”

“You aren’t supposed to cook them at all,” Aziraphale says. “All of the flavor is in the scent, and cooked it’s all - ” He closes his eyes, pausing. “It’s all _gone_.” He gives a strangled, half-hearted little sob.

“Oh, that’s just perfect!” Crowley says, rising to his feet. “Just bloody perfect.” He picks his wine glass up and throws it to the floor. It, too, explodes, sending red wine and glass everywhere. “What was the point of humans inventing cooking if they aren’t even going to use it? Sushi, oysters, _truffles_.” He scoffs, taking a seat next to Aziraphale’s prostrate form. 

From above them, and across the room, the pot of noodles begins to boil over. Water streams down the surface of his stove. Somewhere in the house, a smoke detector begins to ring. Crowley snatches the glasses off of his face and tosses them aside. The full yellow of his eyes is seen only for a moment before he closes them.

Speaking loudly to be heard over the blaring alarm and the trickle of the boiling water, he begins to speak. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I’m so sorry. I tried to do something - something _nice_. Oh, he loves fancy food, I thought, he’ll be delighted. Did you know I had to steal a pig for these? Pigs have a very _distinct_ odor, and they’re so big, and he just kept eating them before I could take them. I saved two of them, though, for you, in case...well, in case of this.”

From the floor, Aziraphale lets out a quiet chuckle. He raises a hand and the alarm goes silent. The water stops boiling. He sits up, smoothing his now ruined vest. Crowley takes one look and miracles the wine away before Aziraphale can even look up. 

“Thank you.” 

They sit together for a few moments, in the wreckage of Crowley’s kitchen. Contained, but not yet fully clean. There are raw onions in Aziraphale’s hair. The silence seems to last forever. Aziraphale is searching for the right thing to say when Crowley speaks.

“I’m not just sorry for cooking the damned truffles,” Crowley says, his voice unusually quiet. 

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale says, looking at Crowley. “I’ve already chosen to forgive you.”

Crowley’s face comes together in a sneer. “You shouldn’t have, though.”

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale says again, “I know it...can be _hard_ for you - to - to...talk about-”

“Ugh,” Crowley says, resting his head back against the cabinets. Aziraphale looks at him curiously. Crowley meets his eyes. Then, he uncrosses his legs, and slowly opens his arms. He beckons Aziraphale with the tips of his fingers, an open invitation. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide, as he looks from Crowley’s body to his eyes, as if making sure that he understood. Undeterred, Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Go on, then,” Crowley says, softly. 

It takes Aziraphale a long time to decide. As if he isn’t sure of anything. As if the kitchen will catch on fire again. As if God herself will come down and smite them both. A millennia of indecision.Then, very suddenly, before he can think himself out of it, he has crawled into Crowley’s lap. Aziraphale’s face is pressed against the crook of Crowley’s neck, as Crowley winds one arm around his back, pressing him closer. He uses the other to snake around Aziraphale’s shoulder and pick the onions out of his hair. When he speaks, Aziraphale can feel the vibrations against his forehead.

“I do love you, you bastard.”

The little hum of pleasure erupts from the back of Aziraphale’s throat.


End file.
